Better Left Unsaid
by SpyKate
Summary: Sydney and Vaughn try to reconcile how they feel with how they must live their lives; also includes Jack, Will, Francie & more. **Chapter 2 Added** Please R & R.
1. Here We Are, Face to Face

Sydney Bristow stood motionless under the circular silver showerhead, allowing a steady spray of hot water to rain down upon her weary body. She'd just come from an intense workout where she had pummeled a punching bag into submission and pushed herself hard until every last ounce of frustration had been drained from her day.  
  
Tilting her head back, Sydney closed her eyes as the water cascaded down her face. She ran her hands back over her chestnut hair, letting out a sigh and sputtering as water passed her lips. She reached for her shampoo and let her mind wander as she lathered up her hair.  
  
Her day had not been particularly bad. She'd arrived at SD-6 on time, greeted her co-workers and had even shared a joke with Dixon as they met by the coffee maker for their morning break. Sloane was out of the office for the day attending to personal business and Sydney felt relaxed, at least for a while, until her father pulled her into his office and clicked his all-too-familiar anti-bug pen before setting it on the desk between them.  
  
"What is it, Dad?" Sydney sat tensely in a chair before him and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  
  
Jack Bristow pursed his lips, a sure sign that Sydney was not going to like what he was about to say. "The CIA has intercepted a coded message from a terrorist organization in Tehran. It took some time to crack, but it appears it was intended to reach Mr. Sark."  
  
"Sark," Sydney repeated his name aloud, her voice laced with disgust. "What did it say?"  
  
Jack continued. "It's detailed, Sydney. For now I'll give you the abridged version. There are arms dealers within the terrorist faction that have acquired a nuclear device that apparently Sark has been seeking for some time. They have asked him to name a price."  
  
"They want to sell it to him?" Sydney was incredulous. "They obviously don't know Sark very well."  
  
"Exactly." Jack agreed just as the pen beeped. He grabbed it, clicked it again, and went on. "Sydney, the CIA believes that Sark is posing as an arms dealer to get valuable information from this faction so that he can then go in and steal the device. What we don't know is if he's sharing this information with Sloane or working on his own." "You want me to find out," Sydney nodded. "How am I supposed to do that without alerting Sark that somehow I'm on to him?"  
  
"From the other end," Jack replied, his eyes dark. He did not like Sark. "You're going to Tehran tomorrow. Today you will spend time learning about this particular faction, where they're based and how best to infiltrate their highly secure compound."  
  
Sydney sat still in the chair, her eyes darting to the pen as it beeped once again. She looked back up at her father's face. She nodded silently and stood, smoothing down her black skirt. There were things that no longer needed to be said. She knew where to go and who to see. She also knew that her father would invent a good cover story to explain her absence and that he would be with her, mentally if not physically, every step of the way.  
  
What frustrated her most was having to work with anyone other than Vaughn.  
  
At the hidden CIA command post, Sydney spent the afternoon with Weiss and Kendall. She liked Weiss well enough; he was informative and supportive and helped her to deflect any of Kendall's asinine directives. But he was not Vaughn. No one, no matter how professional or personable, could replace Vaughn.  
  
Standing in the shower, her head a bit clearer now, Sydney allowed herself a smile at the thought of Agent Michael Vaughn. Because of his command of the language and knowledge of the countryside, he had been sent to France for six weeks to help out at a CIA post. Those six weeks had passed slowly for Sydney; she was glad that they were now ending and Vaughn would be home in a matter of days. She missed him for reasons work related and reasons she dared not speak aloud to anyone but herself.  
  
Sydney reached for the faucet and turned the water off before stepping out of the shower and wrapping herself in her favorite white terrycloth robe. She went to the sink and used the edge of her sleeve to wipe steam from mirror. She surveyed her reflection for a moment before combing her fingers through her wet hair. She was trying to decide what to do with it when she heard her cell phone ring, chirping out loudly from where it lay on her bed.  
  
Sydney snapped off the bathroom light and quickly grabbed the phone, pausing to glance at the caller ID. Her eyes grew wide and she couldn't contain a smile as she answered the call.  
  
"Vaughn?!" She exclaimed, her heart swelling as she heard his familiar voice answer back.  
  
"Hey," He said, his voice giving away the fact that he was smiling, as well.  
  
"When did you get back?" Sydney dropped to a sitting position on the bed and began playing with the belt on her robe.  
  
"A couple of hours ago," Vaughn replied. He didn't waste any more time with small talk. "Can you meet me at the warehouse?"  
  
Sydney was surprised but not disappointed. "Sure, I can be there in half an hour," She glanced up at the digital clock on her bedside table. It was just after seven o'clock. After Vaughn quickly agreed, Sydney hung up and sat there for a moment contemplating the call. It had to mean something that Vaughn was barely back into town after six weeks and he wanted to see her. He probably hadn't even had time yet to fully unpack.  
  
As Sydney quickly dressed in jeans and a sweater, she tried not to think too much about what it could mean. Perhaps it was as simple as Vaughn wanting to be brought up to speed on the Tehran situation. Or, as Sydney secretly hoped was the case, perhaps Vaughn just wanted to see her after a month and a half of being away.  
  
Sydney arrived at the warehouse on time and was not surprised to see Vaughn waiting for her. As she approached, she couldn't help the warmth that spread through her body. Seeing him again felt better than she could have anticipated, and he looked better than she remembered. He was facing away from her at first, but when he heard her approaching footsteps, he turned and raised his head, his green eyes searching her face as he smiled easily.  
  
"Hey," He said to her for the second time that evening. He didn't know why he felt nervous as she came closer, smiling at him like an old, dear friend.  
  
"Hey," Sydney echoed his greeting, stopping a few short feet from him. She wanted to go to him, to hug him, but she stopped herself when she didn't sense that he felt the same. The first moments were always the worst, the most awkward. Now they felt tortuous. They'd never spent this much time apart and didn't know how to act upon seeing each other again.  
  
"How was France?" Sydney asked casually.  
  
"It was Nice," Vaughn replied, his eyes hinting at a smile.  
  
Sydney was momentarily confused. She was sure that Vaughn had told her he had been operating in the French countryside just outside of Dordogne. "I'm sorry," She said, shaking her head. "How was Nice, then?"  
  
Vaughn couldn't help but chuckle. "No, I'm sorry," He said, his cheeks reddening. "I was trying to make a little joke. I shouldn't have even attempted it."  
  
Sydney broke into a smile. "I get it. It was Nice, as in nice. Okay."  
  
"Right," Vaughn nodded. "They're spelled the same. Well, alright then." He rocked back on his heels as he slid his hands in his pants pockets.  
  
After a few very long moments, Sydney broke the silence by admitting the truth.  
  
"I don't know why this feels so strange," She started.  
  
"I missed you," Vaughn interrupted her, his eyes meeting hers once more.  
  
Sydney didn't miss a beat. "I missed you, too," She confessed. She folded her arms over her chest, hugging herself although she suddenly didn't know why. Vaughn didn't notice.  
  
"You look good. Refreshed, almost." He told her.  
  
"Thanks," Sydney smiled. "I finally made it to the spa with Francie. It was wonderful." She gushed. "Life is suddenly easier to bear when you've been treated to a Swedish massage."  
  
"There was a masseuse at the hotel, in France," Vaughn said. "I went once and I agree, nothing beats it." He suddenly perked up and reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat. "That reminds me. I missed your birthday while I was there. I got you something." He pulled out a small package wrapped in delicate pink tissue paper and handed it to Sydney. She accepted it with a smile and looked at it closely. There was a gold ribbon around the package and a label on the front written in French.  
  
Sydney raised her eyes and gave Vaughn a questioning look. "This is perfumed soap," She said, as if he didn't already know. "From the hotel. You brought me hotel soap."  
  
Vaughn shrugged, feigning innocence. "I didn't have time to really shop," He explained, the corners of his mouth beginning to curl up into a smile. The tension between them was broken, and Sydney felt free to tease him.  
  
"You know, Agent Vaughn, protocol dictates that I cannot accept any gifts from my handler."  
  
"It's not a gift," Vaughn teased right back. "It's hotel soap."  
  
They both laughed just as Vaughn's cell phone rang, echoing sharply in the dark, cavernous warehouse.  
  
Sydney sat down on the bench just inside the chain link fence of their meeting area as Vaughn answered his phone and carried on a short but tense conversation. Sydney couldn't guess who was on the other end; she was trying not to eavesdrop and instead busied herself with studying the label on her new bar of soap.  
  
Vaughn ended the call and Sydney looked up. She was troubled by the stormy look in his eyes and rose to her feet, a concerned expression on her face. Before she could ask, Vaughn spoke.  
  
"That was Kendall," He said, his voice bearing traces of fatigue. "He wants to see us both at the command post. Apparently there's been some movement in Tehran."  
  
"Have you been briefed on the situation?" Sydney pocketed the bar of soap as she pulled out her car keys.  
  
"Not fully. I was given a dossier to read on the plane on the way back from France, but it didn't give me all the details. How good are you at talking on the phone while you drive?" Vaughn fished his own car keys from his pocket with one hand as he clutched his cell phone with the other.  
  
"I'll call you," Sydney immediately caught his drift and started for the door. Vaughn's voice calling out her name stopped her and she turned to face him once more.  
  
His expression was soft. "It's good to see you," He said, his eyes all at once warm and secretive. There was no way he could reveal to her all he was thinking. It just wasn't the time, nor the place. He began to wonder if it ever would be.  
  
********* 


	2. A Fresh Start

"Yes, that's the idea, isn't it? You say what you have to say the way you have to say it and hope to hell you're bothering somebody." - Sharon Sheehe Stark  
  
The quote was written longhand on the first page of the dog-eared, navy color-covered notebook that Will Tippin had carried during his final months as a reporter. Whenever he flipped it open and read those words, they allowed him to feel better about himself as he sniffed out, circled, and then attacked each lead with the ferocity of a shark. Even when he went after the SD-6 story and tried to uncover what he had come to realize could not be uncovered without dire consequences, those words stayed with him and fueled his wild curiosity. He just had to flip over the rock and find out what was slithering around underneath, convinced it was a matter of life and death. Will's shock was total and complete when it was made clear to him that the life and death for which he rallied so hard were his own.  
  
The notebook had been relegated to the bottom of a cardboard packing box, the same box he had used to clean out his desk at the newspaper on the day after he had announced to the world that he was a heroin addict. The notebook hitting the bottom of the box sounded and felt to Will like a slap across the face. He knew it would be many months before he could bring himself to dig it out and flip through the pages that to him, during those shark days, had been sacred.  
  
Will did not consider the box again, or its contents, until four months later when he was moving into his new rental, a bungalow-style home in a quiet suburb of Los Angeles. He had managed to move his few meager belongings on his own, stacking the boxes in the half of his new garage not occupied by the car he had fought tooth and nail to keep. In order to make the payments, he had sold all of the furnishings from his old apartment (except for necessities like his TV, his bed and his beloved laptop computer), worked part-time in Francie's restaurant and done some freelance investigations for Agent Vaughn.  
  
Renting the home had come about in an unusual way. It was clear to him, after weeks of crashing at Sydney's and Francie's house, that his status as an almost permanent fixture in their lives needed to change. He had not only taken up residence in their home, but also in their lives, and he often felt like an intruder. Syd and Francie insisted that he could stay as long as he wished, but Will had a sense that his welcome was a bit over- stayed. He began searching, on the sly, for another place to live.  
  
Will enlisted the help of his friends only when he realized the only places he could afford on his own were in nightmarish neighborhoods where gunfire often rang out in broad daylight. Having seen enough trauma in his young life, Will immediately rejected the idea of living in a place where his safety would be in question.  
  
Will was more than a little amazed when one day, at Francie's restaurant, Jack Bristow appeared and offered Will a cashier's check that would more than cover the security deposit and three months worth of rent on a house in a safe, quiet neighborhood. Will accepted the check and stood from the corner table where he sat, finding himself without adequate words to express his gratitude.  
  
"Jack," He shook his head. "I don't. I can't. you've done so much for me already." What he was thinking was that he owed Jack Bristow not only his life in general, but also his new, independent life as well. "I will pay back every cent of this, I swear."  
  
Jack held up a hand to quiet Will's promise. "As far as I'm concerned, Mr. Tippin," He said, his eyes steely but not without compassion. "You've already paid more debt than one person can possibly owe." At those words, Jack turned and left the restaurant, leaving Will to stare after him in dumbfounded silence.  
  
The good fortune did not end there. When Will confessed to Francie that he had virtually nothing to move into his new home, she quickly organized a promotion through the restaurant that offered a free dinner to anyone willing to donate a piece of gently used furniture. Will ended up with a couch, two side chairs, a small kitchen table with one chair and a beat-up but definitely usable office desk. Added to that was the entertainment center and bedside table Francie and Sydney gave him as housewarming gifts. Needless to say, it did not take Will long to move in.  
  
Will had been in his new home for three days when he decided to mow his lawn. The idea thrilled him, and he couldn't help smiling as he kneeled in his garage, tinkering with the used lawnmower he had bought off of the bartender at the restaurant. Will unscrewed the gas cap and stood to grab the gas can from where it sat by the garage door. On his way to retrieve it, he accidentally knocked into a stack of cardboard boxes. The top one tumbled to the garage floor, landing on its side with a thud.  
  
Will sighed and bent to pick it up. He stopped, however, when he read the printing on the side of the box. In his handwriting, tight and slanted, it read "Newspaper stuff". Will paused for a moment, uncertain. He glanced over his shoulder at the lawnmower and then picked up the box. He shook it and heard the rustle of papers inside. His reporter's curiosity got the best of him; he carried the box into the house and let the grass go uncut for the time being.  
  
Holding the notebook in his hands once again brought Will a heady rush he hadn't anticipated. He flipped through it backwards, starting at the end, his fingers tracing over words written in his peculiar shorthand, smiling at names of old sources and tips on leads for various stories. When he reached the first page, a mixture of anger and disgust bubbled to the surface of his consciousness as he read over the quote he had written there, the one that fueled his shark-like bloodlust for juicy leads and meaty stories. The one that kept him in the game long after the other players had gone home.  
  
Will snapped the notebook shut and held it on his lap for a long time. The thoughts circling his brain, like sharks circling prey, were dangerous ones. He forced himself to set the notebook aside and return to the garage and to the yard work at hand. But as he pushed the old, noisy mower back and forth over his modest plot of land, his mind was no longer on the lawn. It was stuck on the reckless idea that there were people left to bother and things he still had to say.  
  
********* 


End file.
